He points the end of one of the sticks to the roasted meat. “Help yourself.”
Oh hell no. I will starve to death before I eat a rodent. I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. “Uh, no. I’m good.”
He sits beside me, tears off a bone, and starts to gnaw the meat right there in front of me. I turn away so I don’t hurl. Gross.
“You might regret that later,” he says. “Food isn’t always plentiful here. When it is, you eat.”
I don’t respond, because if I open my mouth, I’m going to be sick.
We sit in awkward silence while he eats every last bit of meat, and I wonder what I’m going to do next. He answers my question when he stands, stretches, and yawns.
“Water is crucial. Every day, it’s important you drink as much as you can. Fortunately, we have fresh water sources here on this island, and I’ll show you where they are.”
I stand and walk with him, wincing when my feet hit the rough terrain again. He frowns, looking down at my feet. “Those are a hazard,” he says. “Take them off.”
I look down at my feet, then back up to him. “Question,” I ask, frowning right back at him and tipping my head to the side curiously. “Were you the self-appointed leader here or something?”
He narrows his eyes at me but doesn’t respond.
“There are ways of suggesting someone do something without ordering them around. I’d like to remind you, Cy, that I’m not one of your lieutenants.”
He crosses his arms on his chest but still doesn’t respond. Stupidly, I go on.
“Do you know what my job is back in America?”
His face is impassive, his jaw granite. I go on. “I’m a journalist for the The Times.” Still, no response. “I write about women’s rights and feminist ideals?” I explain, waiting for some kind of recognition from him. “I’ve spent my entire career studying the plight of the modern woman and how we can maintain our autonomy and freedom without losing our identity or the gains we’ve made.”
He still doesn’t respond, and it’s starting to make me angry.
“Honest to God, have you nothing at all to say?”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty to say,” he says in a low, dangerous voice that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Damn it.
I swallow but stand my ground.
I go on. “I just think that if you and I are going to… inhabit… this island together…” I sound like a fool and I know it, but I can’t seem to stop talking. “We could... maybe learn to communicate a bit better.”
“How interesting,” he says thoughtfully. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
I blink in surprise, but I’m happy we seem to be making some headway here. “Oh?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. The still-narrowed state of his eyes should warn me. Maybe the sun got to me more than I realized. “I think I’ve been way too fucking polite.”
My jaw falls open in surprise. “What?”
He takes a step toward me, and my heart leaps, but I don’t step back. I won’t let him physically intimidate me.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve buried four men on this island.” When he reaches me, he grabs for my hair and fists it. What is he doing? I come up on my toes and slap fruitlessly at his hands, both terrified and furious. I will hurt this son of a bitch.
His hold is tight, though not as painful as I anticipated. He’s immobilizing me, not assaulting me. I feel like a puppy being held by the scruff of her neck.
What if he’s going to hurt me?
Oh, God. Maybe he’s no better than the man that tried to rape me. The only difference is this one bided his time.
“Let me go!” I protest, still trying to smack him off me. The beast. The fucking beast.
“Four fucking men,” he says. “You got off that ship of your own accord. That was your choice. Now you’re on my turf. And I’ll be fucking damned if I bury another body on my watch. You want to skip eating a fucking meal because somehow meat I roasted with my own two hands is too good for you? Fuck that. You’ll eat what I give you and do what I tell you until it gets through your thick skull how much fucking danger you’re in. You get me?”
I slap at his hand again, angry that tears well in my eyes. He’s too big for me to fend off, and I hate that the only companion I have here indefinitely is showing his true colors as the barbaric douchebag he is.
He yanks my head again and holds my gaze with his, then to my shock, cups my jaw almost tenderly with his other hand. “This could go many ways, Harper. You think on that.” And on that note, he lets go of my hair, turns me around, and slams his palm against my ass so hard I stumble. “Now take off those fucking shoes before I have to do it for you, and if I do it, you’ll be over my knee during the process.”